To tempt an Angel
by Darcy Chambers
Summary: Crowley faces a rather unusual punishment for his part in the Armageddon-that-wasn't. Plus, have Crowley and Zira spent too long on Earth? These human feelings are really cramping their style. Lemons later.
1. Chapter 1

The sky above was blue and crisp and any clouds to be seen were hazy, thin wisps spread far apart over the nearing horizon. Cars and juggernauts came and went with a blur that could only be achieved by passing them at speeds over 110mph along the M25. Crowley dodged in and out of cars in a lazy, carefree sort of way, barely noticing they were there whilst humming along to an old Queen number one. Ahead of him, a friendly, green signpost told him to take the next exit. Crowley smiled. The Bentley shifted a gear and his indicators winked at passing cars before the majestic car veered to the left down a slightly smaller road.

"Made in heaven, made in heaven, It was all meant to be, yeah..." Crowley tuned out Freddie Mecury's croons and thought how nice it was to be heading back to London. He had spent nearly two weeks amongst missionaries abroad and, after successfully tempting them out of their sacred fast, was looking forward to celebrating over a glass of wine with Aziraphale. The angel had left a short but polite message on his answer-phone, a message Crowley couldn't help smiling at when he pressed the flashing red button back in his apartment a few hours ago. The man's soft voice had filled the demon's white, modern apartment and brought with it memories of laughter, wine and late night talks. Crowley missed his friend and had made the snap decision to head back into the heart of London for a drink and a catch up almost immediately. Of course, the thought of angering the demonic community further also crossed his mind but he pushed any uneasy feelings to the back of his thoughts where they sat contemptuously behind others of forgetting to call his mother and paying tax. Anyway demons were meant to be bad, weren't they?

It had been several months since the apocalypse that wasn't and the demonic community was slowly getting back to normal. Crowley had been receiving regular orders now for almost two months to cause mundane mischief and commit small but meaningful acts of diabolical behaviour. He felt he was slowly getting back into his old routine and although he wondered vaguely why no one down there had bothered to punish him, he thought it best not to question it. Perhaps they'd forgotten. There was probably a lot of paperwork to sort through in Hell, mused Crowley, there's probably a note with my name attached to it at the bottom of the pile.

The Bentley cut through the midsummer air like a duck through water as the demon passed by another suburban town. Much too many of these places, he pondered as he shot through it, all these towns on the edge of the city are all the same. Boring, mundane little – there was a thump and a noise like a walnut being cracked open. The car stopped. Damn though Crowley. He glanced into his wing mirror and grimaced at a heap in the middle of the quiet road. Above him, a red balloon rose solemnly into the still, empty air until it was caught in a wind current wherein it suddenly took flight. Crowley got out of the car, noting he was now about half a mile away from the sleepy town, and checked his bonnet out of pure habit. There was a large dent which immediately corrected itself, almost embarrassed at being seen as anything less than perfect. The demon lent against the sleek, polished door and watched the body as though it might suddenly sit up and skip off back home for tea. It didn't move.

WELL WELL. Came a voice like the final closing of a coffin lid from behind Crowley. The voice entered his head without the assistance of his ears and lingered there, making itself at home.

WHAT HAVE WE HERE? A SMALL ROADKILL?

Crowley turned and looked at the hooded figure reproachfully.

"That was rather tasteless, wasn't it?" he said. Something like guilt knotted itself in the pit of his stomach. Something like guilt. It wasn't guilt of course. Guilt was a human emotion. Crowley was fairly certain it wasn't possible for him to experience it.

PERHAPS. Said the seven foot skeleton. Then, looking over the demon's shoulder, he sighed, COME ON.

"Cor mister, I like your stick!" Came a high, impressed sounding voice. The shade of a red-headed befreckled boy of around eight skipped over to join the group lounging beside the black Bentley in the afternoon heat.

IT IS A SCYTHE ACTUALLY. Said Death, holding it out proudly.

"Cor, can I have a go?"

NO

"Please? I won't drop it!"

NO. Death nodded at Crowley and put his arm around the boy. TIME TO GO, he said. Crowley watched in fascination as the pair began to fade.

"Wait! The balloon! My sister'll kill me if I lose her balloon..." The voice faded until Crowley could hear nothing but the birdsong belonging to the woodland surrounding him. He watched the empty air for a while before climbing back behind the wheel. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he sped away from the eerie road and from the quiet, crumpled body lying in the middle of it.

Freddie Mecury joined him for the ride back, guitar solos that seemed to last forever accompanying him. Crowley kept his narrow eyes on the road ahead, unblinking. He couldn't get the image of the heap out of his head. Dead. Killed. Gone. Just like that. Of course Crowley had experienced death before. It was all over the place. He'd watched it, enjoyed it too sometimes and even caused it. But he'd always only been indirectly responsible. Convincing someone to shoot their business partner wasn't the same as wrestling the gun from their grip and doing it yourself. Crowley had never directly killed anything, especially not a human child. He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to focus on his dinner plans but an image of Aziraphale's disappointed stare swam in front of his vision. Zira! What would he say? Crowley groaned.

Meanwhile the angel in question was sitting quietly in his bookshop thumbing through his latest find. The book was old and dog-eared, undoubtedly enjoyed by an individual immensely over a period of time. There were dark stains on it where it had had coffee spilt on it and many pages had been bound together with string. The book wasn't particularly intelligent or inspiring but it had been loved. Aziraphale smiled as he thought of the memories the book and its last owner must have shared. Then he closed it, put it in its glass case and locked the door.

The afternoon's glow simmered through the gaps in his venetian blinds which were partly closed to give the appearance that the shop was not open for business. Aziraphale had even gone as far as to turn the sign on the front door around so that to any potential customers, the bookstore was closed. Aziraphale smiled again as he swept loving blue eyes over the towers of books which were his fortress. His home was guarded by printed birds which so often perched on his hand as he went about any daily chores. They held in them secrets, fables, stories of other worlds and could take him anywhere without him ever needing to leave the comfort of his high-backed armchair. Of course, if he wanted to, the angel could simply visit these places instead of simply reading about them. Crowley had often pointed this out but the angel preferred to read mankind's interpretation of the Earth rather than witnessing it firsthand.

"But we could go together! You and I!" Crowley had whispered, "We could go anywhere. Anywhere you want. Rainforests, deserts, capital cities!" Aziraphale had to admit the adventures sounded tempting but he had got used to his daily routine and when away from home, longed for the security of his little, backstreet bookshop.

"You old romantic," Crowley had scoffed but Aziraphale knew he understood. He had bought the angel a book on the Amazonian rainforests once for Christmas. Aziraphale's mouth turned up at the sides as he remembered how it had been bashfully handed to him from under the tree but a buzz from his phone stopped any further reminiscing. The text from Crowley simply said: Five minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale, to his own amazement, blushed and hurried to fetch his coat. He briskly locked the door, ignoring the prying eyes from glowering bookworms across the street and marched across the cobbled road to the quiet cafe opposite. The square was peaceful, it's inhabitants either frequenting the local haberdashery, sipping coffee in the cafe or strolling over to the park. Aziraphale nodded in acknowledgement to the restaurant's owner before sitting at his usual table. It was a nice spot facing the park where one could watch ordinary humans living slow, ordinary lives.

Suddenly the sound of an old, well maintained engine broke the tranquillity and the blast of a horn told the angel his friend had arrived. The Bentley parked in the centre of the square, earning disapproving glares from locals and a nervous glance from a nearby traffic warden who immediately sensed danger and scurried up a side road out of the way. Aziraphale didn't look up from his paper.

"Damn pedestrians!" he heard Crowley mutter. There was the slam. "All over the goddamn street!" Footsteps grew louder and then the scrap of a chair being pulled across the paving stones made Aziraphale look up. Basked in Crowley's shadow, he smiled up at the demon and noted with interest how his heartbeat quickened. Crowley sat heavily and snapped his fingers at a flustered waitress.

"Two coffees, one black," he said. And then, "how have you been?" Aziraphale smiled and then stopped, aware he was grinning like an idiot and earning a strange look from the demon.

"Oh fine, fine. Good. Fine," he said. He licked his lips, craving the coffee to quench his dry mouth. "And you my dear?"s

"Fine," said Crowley, frowning at his feet. The waitress arrived and placed the beverages in front of them.

"Anything else I can do for you?" she smiled. The men shook their heads and she left. Aziraphale put down his paper at last and took a careful sip, watching the other man. His black leather jacket reflected the sun's rays and his dark hair drooped in the heat. The angel could see himself in the dark glass of the man's shades.

"You seem in a particularly foul mood," he observed, "even for you." Crowley glanced up and shrugged.

"S'nothing..." he murmured, one hand fiddling with the salt shaker in the middle of the table. Aziraphale immediately placed a pale hand over the demon's and gripped it.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern lacing his every syllable. Crowley, unable to prevent himself, turned a deep crimson and stared at the hand covering his. Aziraphale, suddenly embarrassed, recoiled and shoved his hand firmly under the table.

"Tell me," he urged. Crowley licked his lips and looked over his sunglasses at the angel. He wanted to tell him what had just happened but didn't know where to start. Why did he even want to tell him? It wasn't as though he felt guilty or remorseful or anything.

"Do you ever wonder whether we've spent too much time on Earth?" he settled for. Seeing his friend's puzzled gaze, he pressed on. "I mean, our instincts tell us to be bad, or good, but with all these humans around... I dunno. I just feel like I get my signals crossed sometimes. Like, I feel things other demons shouldn't."

"Like love?" breathed Aziraphale, "or, or envy, um, or remorse?" He blushed as Crowley choked on his drink and hoped he hadn't said anything wrong.

"Remorse? Why, why remorse? Why did you think remorse?" spluttered the demon. Aziraphale reached over to pat the man on the back but Crowley brushed him away. "I'm fine, went down the wrong way." Aziraphale sat back and frowned.

"Because it's an example of a human emotion?"

"Right! Human. Exactly. So we shouldn't feel those things, right?" he looked pleadingly at the angel who blushed.

"Who knows. Maybe we just think we feel them because that's what we think we're supposed to." Crowley shook his head.

"Nah, that's not it. I felt, like, guilty." Aziraphale frowned.

"Why? What did you do?" Crowley froze. He could already feel the angel's questioning stare bearing down on him. He couldn't stand to see the look he'd receive if he told him the truth.

"Nothing," he muttered, "wine?"

As the evening took over, the sun handed custody of the sky over to a couple of early stars. The moon was nowhere to be seen. Underneath it all, the angel and the demon sat and laughed in the warm air over their second bottle of wine. The rare and expensive bottle had suddenly been recovered from behind the bar by some miracle and handed over by a bewildered barman. It was almost empty.

"Aha! Cowering behind their clouds!" giggled Aziraphale slapping a hand on the table. Crowley covered it with his.

"Shh, shhh!" he laughed in the drunken tones of someone in the company of an old friend and old wine, "they might hear us! Hah! Can you imag- im- imagine them descending to give you a telling off?" He waved his hands about above his head, wiggling his fingers and lowered them to the table whilst making ghostly noises.

"Zira," he boomed before breaking off laughing and starting again, "Zira, you must not play with demons! Come back and sit with us on fluffy white clouds!" Aziraphale snorted and shook his head.

"What about your lot?" he laughed, "Crowley you naughty snake! Get back down here and torture souls like a normal demon!" He took another swing of wine and smiled. Crowley smiled back and they held each other's gaze until a waitress came to take away the empty bottle.

"Well," sighed Crowley, "I suppose I'd better head back. They'll be giving me my next set of orders soon. Wouldn't want to miss that." Aziraphale lent forward and patted his knee consolingly and sighed at the man's bitter tone.

"Well you're welcome at mine anytime, my dear," he said quietly, "in fact... why don't you stay here tonight? You're not really in any condition to drive. You might hit someone!" Crowley had been about to reply when the end of the man's sentence cut off any answer forming in his blurry mind. Aziraphale's smile faded as Crowley closed his eyes and shuddered. The alcohol left his bloodstream quickly and left a sober Crowley glaring at his feet.

"Shouldn't really Zira," he said. "Long way back..." Aziraphale watched helplessly as the demon stood and shrugged back on his black jacket which had been hanging over the back of his chair.

"We should do this again soon," said Crowley. He waited for the angel to stand also but he did not. "Well... goodnight."

"Night..." whispered Aziraphale hoarsely. He closed his eyes and flinched as he became sober. Opening them again, he looked on as the Bentley's owner climbed back inside the beautiful black car and reversed into the imminent night. The angel sat alone, confused and sober.


	3. Chapter 3

Down in Hell a storm was brewing. Of course, the weather isn't ever particularly nice, but this storm was rumbling in the hearts and minds of thousands upon thousands of confused and angry demons who had suddenly, inexplicably found themselves shoved back into their old daily routines, their weapons prized from their resisting grips, and told to get back to work. They did so, reluctantly, and so it was that Ligur found himself patrolling the offices along the second level, occasionally poking the lawyers with his pitchfork to make himself feel better.

"Get on with it," he growled in a low and menacing voice. Two paper shredders jumped back into action. There was a general consensus that down here, in this hot room filled to the ceilings with towers of paper, was just like being back at the office. What a cruel and ironic joke. The boss, as it were, strode around the rooms, fingering his pitchfork and employing the phrase, corporal punishment. Suddenly a young clerk found himself cast in a horrible silhouette. The youth shut his eyes and waited.

"What is that?" Ligur purred. The man opened his eyes and looked down at his ink stained hands which were trembling and holding out a folded note.

"I - I, I'm not s-sure sir. I- f-found it at t-the bottom, sir." The paper was snatched out of his shaking fingers and uncurled by gnarled, taloned hands. The room suddenly grew intensely hot. It was unbearable. The lawyers clawed at their throats, gasping for air and water.

"That lying sssnake..." hissed the duke of Hell. Anger consuming him, he literally burned in a fit of rage. He crumpled the note in his fist where it burned and fell softly to the floor as a heap of ash. He then turned to the clerks. They were lying on the floor as piles of dirt and bones.

"Oh. Oops." He rolled his eyes at the inconvenience and then raised his voice. "Hastur? Hastur! You around here somewhere?" An ugly face popped around the door.

"There you are. Fetch the lords. I have a new order to deliver to our friend above the surface. You're going to enjoy this."

* * *

><p>Crowley stretched out and made himself comfortable on his leather sofa, kicking the cushions onto the floor and pouring himself another glass of red wine. Behind him, his potted plants lent a little closer to the cool liquid and tried to edge out of the roaring sun whose rays were increased by the wide sheet of glass covering the entire wall. The window displayed an amazing view of New York with skyscrapers scratching at the cloudless sky. Crowley had his back to it. He lazily waved a hand and the television switched on by itself. He didn't really enjoy television, in fact, this was only the second time he'd ever turned the thing on but he was feeling low and needed something trivial to stop his thoughts from wandering. Simon Cowel's voice droned on and the demon smiled. One of his finest. Eventually though, his head began to droop into his chest and his grip slackened on his glass.<p>

"CROWLEY? CROWLEY." Crowley's head snapped up and he stared around his empty apartment and then down at himself. There was a deep red stain on the couch next to him and a broken glass on the floor. The demon was rather surprised and somewhat embarrassed to find his dark shirt unbuttoned and his hand below his waistband.

"Shit," he muttered before vanishing the wine stain. Any trace disappeared but he'd still know it was there. He quickly refastened his belt and lay back into the sofa, eyes half closed.

"CROWLEY!" Snapped a familiar, irritated voice. Crowley sat up and stared at the television screen. Simon Cowel was glaring at him.

"I HAVE A NEW MISSION FOR YOU CROWLEY," he said. The demon rubbed his eyes and sat up a little straighter.

"WE ARE AWARE YOU ARE IN CONTACT WITH THE ANGEL," he crooned. Crowley bit his lip.

"Angel? What -?"

"HEAVEN'S REPRESENTATIVE ON EARTH, CROWLEY. WE BELIEVE YOU HAVE MET." Crowley adopted an innocent expression and frowned as though contemplating the suggestion.

"Perhaps," he shrugged, "that whole Armageddon deal was a while ago..."

"NEVERTHELESS, WE REMEMBER. WE HAVE A NEW TASK FOR YOU."

Down in the inferno, tucked away on the eighth circle, a small assembly of excitable demons sat around an obscure looking instrument. The instrument had a large ear piece as well as several knobs and buttons which the biggest was turning and pressing seemingly randomly. The onlookers sniggered as he lent toward the mouthpiece.

"Listen closely," he crooned, "we are aware you have been successful in your last missions and have therefore selected you for this..." he paused and fumbled around for a word.

"Secret?" suggested a spectator. Hastur shook his head.

"Dangerous?" grinned another.

"...dangerous task. Here are your instructions." He lent away from the microphone, covering his mouth, momentarily overcome with mirth. The other demons shushed him and egged him on impatiently.

"You must... _tempt_ the angel," crooned Hastur suggestively, raising his eyebrows and the others who snorted with laughter.

"Come again?" came a familiar voice, crackled by the poor reception down in hell. Hastur cleared his throat and, with a horrible grin, continued.

"Listen closely," he repeated.

* * *

><p>"What? What!"<p>

"YOU HEARD CORRECTLY."

"But that's impossible! There's no way- "

"NOTHING'S IMPOSSIBLE. YOU WILL FIND A WAY." Crowley blinked at his TV and scratched his chin. The demonic tones emanating from it sounded smug. Too smug. He lent forward, steepled his fingers and gave the machine a long, hard stare.

"I've never been given specific instructions before. I've always had...what's the phrase...creative freedom. You know, to do what_ I_ want."

"THESE INSTRUCTIONS COME FROM THE HIGHEST AUTHORITY."

"Who? I want names! Ligur's behind this, isn't he? Tell me."

"THE HIGHEST AUTHORITY." There was a snigger and Crowley frowned.

"HE HAS NOT FORGOTTEN. THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS REMEMBERS THE PART YOU PLAYED. YOU MUST COMPLETE THE TASK." The unsaid "or else" remained lingering in the air and Crowley felt it echo around his thoughts. So the underworld hadn't forgotten his part in the Armageddon that wasn't. Damn. The television whirred and turned off. He presumed the uninvited presence had left. Silence flooded the flat.

He took the opportunity to voice his frustration out loud.

"F***********CK!"

The potted plants around the window sill shrank back in fear. The man paced the room, raking his fingers through his dark hair causing it to stand on end in devilish spikes. He feet padded on the persian rug leaving smoldering scorch marks. Crowley's glasses had slipped revealing a startling pair of wide, red eyes. They rolled skywards as he thought about the subject of his latest instructions. The voice had been very specific. Crowley sank back into his sofa, closed his eyes, rubbed his temples and tried to think of a loophole. There wasn't one. Someone had made sure there was no way he could wriggle out.

He had to tempt an angel. One angel. Aziraphale.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley sighed heavily and unbuttoned his shirt. He was feeling tense and he always felt better when he was free to stretch his wings. A dark shadow swept over the apartment as a pair of black velvet wings unfolded themselves gracefully. Crowley exhaled as the tension around his shoulder blades immediately lessened. He smiled as the sensitive feathers brushed the leather, sending shivers down his neck. That felt _good_. Leaning further back into the recesses of his couch, he let his eyes grow heavy and his mind wander.

Aziraphale.

The man's name drifted through his consciousness like a feather falling to earth and Crowley felt the corners of his mouth turn up. This caught him off guard and he frowned as he recalled the voice's words.

"_Tempt the angel. Make him fall. Bring him to his knees."_

Crowley knew the demons below still stung from their unexpected stalemate and sought to humiliate their opposition. He also knew that this was a form of punishment for him too. If he failed to tempt the angel - an impossible task - he would face hell's wrath and that they would be fully justified in disciplining him. The demons were waiting for their chance at revenge and Crowley was circling their trap.

He reached over, groaning with the effort, and lifted his phone from the table beside him. He stabbed in the first four digits of a familiar number and as he did so, was amazed to find a faint smile hovering on his lips. Crowley let the phone rest on his leg as he contemplated this. He was smiling. Why was he smiling at the thought of phoning Aziraphale, of hearing his soft, musical voice? He should be nervous, afraid even. If he failed, hell would punish him. If he succeeded... Crowley wasn't even sure how to approach tempting an angel. Where would he begin?

At the start. Find his weakness.

Aziraphale hummed to himself as he dusted the leather bound books lining the shelves in his shop. He stood on his toes and waved the feather duster half-heartedly at the top of the towering shelves. He didn't like to remove too much dust as it dissuaded potential customers and so a thin coating covered every possible surface. He repaired a few broken cobwebs by some miracle and breathed life back into a cockroach that had died during the night. It scuttled back under the floorboards gratefully. The angel, whistling now, strode along the avenues of books until sunlight told him he was nearing the front of his shop. Turning the final corner in the labyrinth of literature, he found himself behind his desk, facing his shop window. The blinds were drawn, giving the impression he was closed but allowed thin strips of light to decorate the room.

The duster swept over his desk, scattering bills and notes and sent particles of dust up into the air where a beam of light highlighted their slow, graceful descent back to earth. Aziraphale lounged in his chair and swiveled to face his phone. A flashing red light had attracted his attention. The angel kicked away from his desk and propelled himself over to the phone. He flicked the switch lazily.

"Zira, mate, you still in London? Thinking of traveling down there myself in a bit. Fancy hooking up? Meeting up, I mean. Drink? I'll even let you choose the wine."

Aziraphale closed his eyes as the husky voice filled the room, bouncing off the walls. How confident the demon sounded. What made him think he even wanted to meet up? The angel scoffed and twirled himself back to his desk lost in bliss. He groaned as the bell above the shop door tinkled. Drat, a customer.

A bespeckeled, middle aged man wandered over the threshold and glanced around the dusky shop. He nodded as he met the angel's gaze before shuffling off in the direction of crime fiction. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, stood up and shuffled after him. After a while, the customer felt that inexplicable prickling on the back of his neck which told him he was being watched, or, more accurately, glared at. He half turned to find a heavenly pair of blue eyes regarding him over the top of a dog-eared first edition. Aziraphale lowered the book and offered the balding man a wan smile.

"May I be of assistance?"

"Err," said the man, shifting his weight uncomfortably, "just browsing thanks."

"Perhaps you were looking for this...?" Aziraphale leaned over the man, inhaling his tobacco stench, and selected a book a random. He could afford to sacrifice a few.

"Um, I don't think -"

"...only I was about to lock up for lunch." finished Aziraphale, still smiling angelically.

"But...it's only half past ten..." Aziraphale's smile did not flicker. His eyes bore into the man's watery ones.

"Actually..." said the customer hurriedly taking the book out of the shop keeper's resisting hands. At last the till was closed and the bell above the shop door announced the man's departure. Aziraphale sighed and shook his head. Everyday at least one human tried to take his precious books away from him.

He fingered the papers on his desk and tried to recall what he had been doing before that rude man had interrupted his peaceful morning. Oh yes. That phone message. Aziraphale's smile brightened the room and a rush of breath escaped his parted lips as he thought about Crowley's proposal to meet up. He didn't bother to wonder why he was suddenly blushing, instead he dived for the phone and pushed speed dial. He'd have to close the shop for a few days. Thank goodness.

The phone rang twice before it was answered by a sleepy Crowley.

"Whazyt?" he said gruffly. Aziraphale apologized quickly. He had forgotten the time difference. It was half past five in the morning in New York.

"S'fine, s'fine," purred Crowley, "name the time and place. Changed my mind about the wine though. You're awful at choosing." Aziraphale smiled into the receiver.

"On my way to Paris dear. Rare book auction this afternoon, I'm afraid."

"No problem. Montmartre for dinner? Say, nine?"

"Perfect. It's a date."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer" I do not own these characters. Nor do I pretend to know anything about auctions. This story was largely modelled on the few episodes on 'under the hammer' that I've seen.**

Aziraphale wandered through the dusty room, pamphlet in hand, pausing now and then to peer at an old edition of a book he recognized. Shivers of excitement ran along his spine as he recalled their names, their authors, their history. It was almost like being surrounded by hundreds of famous people. These books recorded amazing adventures, advanced ideas and yet very few people took the time to read them. They were priceless and yet they were being sold off at auction. The angel frowned as his fingers hovered above the perfectly stitched binding of a fragile book. He longed to caress it's pages but touching it almost felt sacrilegious. As though he was rubbing off its worth with his fingertips.

Old, used floorboards creaked under his feet as Aziraphale wandered through the room like a kid in a sweetshop. His pencil circled item after item in his auction booklet and his credit card shivered in anticipation in his pocket. Knowledge and power and stories seemed to seep out of the old book's pages and flow around him, filling the room with their musty scent. Inhaling it, the angle cast a final glance around the room before entering the auction hall. Voices which had seemed so muffled and distant suddenly overwhelmed him as he stepped out into a crowd of eager buyers.

"Two. Two-fifty. Three. Three? Anyone else? Going, going. Sold! Congratulations to the woman in the pink cardigan!"

There was a polite, appreciative murmur from the crowd as the woman in the pink cardigan offered a small, knowing smile. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Some people had more money than sense. He stood at the back and fanned himself with his pamphlet, scanning the room. None of his books were due to be auctioned until the end. They sold off the trivial first.

The angel noticed a few familiar faces mingled in the crowds. He usually didn't give much thought to names as people passed on so quickly but there was something lasting about a face. No two people ever looked exactly the same in his opinion. Even twins had different expressions. One particular expression attracted his attention long before he recalled the face on which it hung off. It was one of longing and sadness but also a kind of insane hope. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and peered over his glasses at a mop of messy brown hair atop a rather pale face belonging to a man he had once known.

"Five hundred. Six. Six?" Aziraphale quickly raised a hand and the price for one of the older books steadily rose. Many long time auction frequenters had learned that whatever Aziraphale wanted was valuable and therefore bid like crazy to buy it first. The auctioneer wiped the sweat from his brow as he called out the prices. Hands and nods and secretive eyebrow raises swept through the crowd like a wave on a tide. The brown haired man also raised his hand before turning back to stare longingly at the angel. Aziraphale shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He felt bad ignoring the man but smiling might...lead him on? He offered a lop-sided grin anyway, his good nature taking over. He practically heard the man's heart skip a beat and the poor soul used the opportunity to fight his way through the throng over to Aziraphale.

"Az!" Smiled the man breathlessly. Aziraphale groaned inwardly. He hated being called that.

"How are you? How've you been?" The man put the angel in mind of an excited puppy. Lovable, overly friendly but eventually just plain annoying. He lent back politely and adjusted his glasses as the man took a step too close.

"Ahem, fine," he grimaced, "you?" He gave himself a mental shake. He shouldn't have asked that, it was encouraging the poor man. The acquaintance on the other hand looked positively thrilled at being asked such a trivial pleasantry and, taking a deep breath, informed him of his life story.

"Ah...how nice...I see...sounds lovely...hmm..." Aziraphale let the man's soothing tone of voice drift over him as he studied his pamphlet. To think he had once found the man's attentions flattering... He risked a glance upwards, whilst the man was describing his recent trip to Rome, and took in his features. He was a handsome man in some respects. His eyes were emerald green and bright like gems and his lips were soft and pink. The angel watched them move as they traced words he could not hear and though about the last time they had touched his. They had been soft, eager, trembling as they pressed against his mouth and then moved along his neck and across his collar. His hands, now waving frantically as he explained a doubtlessly hilarious adventure at length, had been careful as they had wound through his hair and down his chest, past his belt, down to his -

"Seven. Seven-fifty. Seven-fifty?" Aziraphale's hand shot up into the air and the noise of the crowd hit him like a flood. He was back in the room, barely listening to an old lover and, he suddenly realized, pressed up against a corner. The brunette opposite him paused mid-sentence and regarded him reproachfully.

"You alright, Az?" he asked. Aziraphale flinched.

"Fine. Good. Yes, fine. Sorry," he shrugged past the man, apologizing again, and hurried off into the crowd. Only when he had reached the other end of the room did he pause for breath. The other man's wounded expression had long ago been lost in the throng. Aziraphale pushed aside the guilt and focused on the next book. It was been presented temptingly at the front of the hall on a stage. Uttering it's name seemed ineffable but the auctioneer, oblivious to the worth of the book, read out it's details as though it was some sort of common dictionary. Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height and waited until the bidding process began to slow.

"Six-fifty? Six? Anyone else?"

The angel raised a tactful eyebrow. The bidders swarmed and the price shot through the roof. Eventually it began to slow. Just as well, thought Aziraphale, as the auctioneer's voice was wearing thin.

"Fifteen? Do I hear Fifteen thousand?" Aziraphale waved a hand lazily as though conducting a symphony of silence within the room. There was a hushed intake of breath as the crowds watched the hammer fall as though in slow motion.

"Going. Going..."

"Sixteen thousand!" Shouted a voice from the back. Heads turned as their owners swiveled in their seats to spot Aziraphale's competitor. The angel did not bother to look up. Why grant the fool the satisfaction?

"Seventeen," he growled. The auctioneer lowered his hammer cautiously -

"Eighteen!" - and raised it again. Aziraphale could see the crowds parting out of the corner of his eye, could feel them being moved aside as a confident, cocky figure swept through them.

"Twenty!" he snapped, waving his pamphlet for good measure. The auctioneer paused, his breath held, as silence rang out through the room. The crowds watched two figures near the front of the stage nervously.

"Oh come on, Zira," crooned a voice by his ear, "my treat." Crowley raised his eyebrow significantly, raising the book's value yet again. One hundred pairs of eyeballs switched from Crowley to Aziraphale as though they were watching a very slow game of tennis. The angel shook then bowed his head.

"Sold!" cried the auctioneer gratefully, "to the man in the sunglasses!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Just so you know - i hate the derogatory term "faggot" and coincidentally so does our favourite demon.**

**DC (Please R&R)**

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't have."<p>

"I wanted to."

"But you shouldn't have, really."

"Fine, I'll give it back."

"No!" Aziraphale clasped the wooden crate to his chest protectively. The precious book had been designated a box all to itself. Beside him, Crowley laughed as he watched two hired men load the back of the van with wooden crates, all labelled 'This Way Up' or "Fragile' in the angel's neat, cursive script. It was a warm summer's evening in central France and the younger of the two removal men had removed his shirt. Sweat glistened on his pumping shoulder blades as Crowley looked on appreciatively. Aziraphale, noticing this, stepped between them pointedly.

"I can't really accept this though," he persevered. "It's really too much. How about I -"

"Pay for dinner? Sure." Crowley lifted his dark glasses and winked at his friend conspicuously. Aziraphale huffed and sloped off, still clutching his gift, and wandered back into the auction hall. Crowley watched him go, deep in thought. He didn't even know what the damn book was about. It had just started as a bit of fun, only winding the man up, so how did he end up buying the bloody book? He'd strode into the hall with the intention of causing some mild mayhem. Setting fire to some of the older books, outbidding desperate collectors...that sort of thing. But the calm look on the angel's face... his clear voice ringing out across the room... the longing in his eyes as he spotted the book...Crowley had only wanted to make him happy.

As the demon watched Aziraphale bound off into the darkness of the building, he wondered whether his actions had gone a bit far. Aziraphale had seemed quite overcome at the gesture. Perhaps he'd done too much.

"Should've just bought him a bloody bookmark..." grumbled Crowley. He turned just in time to see a crate labeled 'careful' tumble out of one the mover's hands. Crowley's eyes widened and his glasses slipped down his nose as he dived to catch the box before it could smash on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the other man also bent quickly to snatch it up which rather ruined the perfectly executed dive the demon was aiming for when they collided into each other.

"Argh!"

"Ouch!" In a heap, Crowley disentangled himself from the naked torso and sat up triumphantly, box in hand. Pushing his glasses back up his nose and smoothing out his hair, he noticed the moaning body writhing beneath him.

"Whoops. Sorry." Perfect blues eyes glared at him accusingly from underneath long, ash blond hair as the man struggled to his feet, holding his wrist. Crowley found himself looking deeper into a pair of ocean blue eyes, instead of apologizing profusely, and reached out to touch the man's arm.

"Does it hurt?"

"Probably sprained," said the blond in a soothing French accent. He rolled his R's which practically dripped from his tongue. The accent caught Crowley by surprise and he found himself smitten.

"Let me have a look," he whispered, "I'm a doctor you know..." His hands caressed the other's wrist. Suddenly the removal man drew a sharp intake of breath as Crowley bent his finger.

"It hurts here?" asked Crowley, adopting what he thought was a knowing expression.

"That is where you fell on it, yes," grumbled the man. Crowley smiled. The man was annoyed - how cute. He looked up into narrowed blue eyes and, with his free hand, slowly removed his glasses.

"Does this...feel...better...?" Red eyes focused on blue as Crowley traced his finger over the spot of pain, removing any injury by the power of suggestion. He delighted in seeing the man's eyes widen and his features soften as Crowley replaced the feeling of pain with pleasure. _Pain's all in the mind_, thought Crowley as he held eye contact. Eventually the Frenchman blinked and the spell was broken.

"Ahh," he exclaimed, rubbing his wrist, "you...you fixed it."

"Well I am a doctor you know," repeated Crowley innocently. "If you've any other sore spots I'd be _more_ than happy to -"

"Philip? Where are you boy? That daft faggot's got another two dozen boxes back there and I've - Oh!" An older man with a rougher accent stumbled out of the shadows of the hall with an embarrassed expression.

"Sorry sir, I thought - I mean, I didn't know - I was only, err, ahaha..." Philip glanced over his toned, muscular shoulder and gave his uncle and exasperated look. Crowley narrowed his eyes at the man before giving him a wry smile.

"That's quite alright sir, I was just leaving. Better see how my dear, daft faggot is getting on... knowing him he's probably bought another load of delicate, _heavy_ books." Crowley nodded to them both before striding off. He'd just reached the auction hall's back doors when the man's truck's tires suddenly punctured simultaneously. Even the spare one in the boot. Strange.

Crowley was just wondering whether rendering the older man bald was a step too far when the angel bounded out in front of him. Unsurprisingly he was hiding behind a tower of bubble-wrapped books, stacked up in his arms. Not noticing Crowley he stumbled past, calling out directions to another wandering tower of books behind him.

"This way Callum. Watch this step here. Are you alright?"

"Right behind you Az!" trilled a cheerful voice. A pair of eager eyes below a mop of brown hair peeked around the pile of books and spotted a bemused Crowley leaning against the door frame.

"Scuse me," he said before shuffling after the angel who was striding towards the van. Crowley narrowed his eyes as he watched the man catch up to Aziraphale. He definitely recognized that man. He never forgot a face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Ahem, yeah... another chapter :) Man, do you guys find Callum (OC) just as annoying as I do?**

**DC**

Behind the gothic towers and spires that was the skyline of Montmartre, the sky burned. Or at least, that's what it looked like. As the sun set, it left behind it a brilliant trail of orange and red light coloring the sky, casting long, dark shadows of the tourists wading through old streets below. The drop in temperature and the fading light had dissuaded many from venturing out into the winding streets of old Paris but amongst the few that did, three figures roamed the cobbled paths, two chattering incessantly and a third trailing someway behind.

Crowley caught a glimpse of himself in a boulangerie window. Dark glasses sat atop a turned up coat collar with a snarl sitting between the two. It was aimed at the two figures striding a few paces ahead. Aziraphale and his friend, intoxicated on smell of old books, were laughing and chatting as they wound through the brightly lit backstreets, unaware of the demon's rising temper a short way behind them. Crowley kicked a crumpled beer can off the curb and into the gutter and shoved his hands in his pockets. It was supposed to be a pleasant night out in the town but instead of the company between two as Crowley had hoped, it had turned into a crowd of three as an old friend of Aziraphale's had decided to tag along. Although the angel had seemed a tad uncomfortable at first, to the demon's secret delight, he had soon embraced the third man's company and the two had been discussing books or whatever for the past hour.

Now Crowley was sulking. This wasn't fair. _He'd_ travelled to stupid Paris to see Aziraphale, _he'd_ bought him the stupid book, _he'd_ even suggested the restaurant they were ambling towards so why was this new guy so popular? Jealously swelled beneath his chest making him hot and bothered even in the cool evening._ Stupid Zira_.

As though he had heard his name muttered in Crowley's thoughts, Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder to see the skulking figure of the demon walking farther back than he'd imagined. He paused and waited for him to catch up.

"Oh don't mind me," grumbled Crowley as he reached them eventually. The angel looked surprised but the man beside him just smiled.

"Sorry pal. Got a bit carried away didn't we Az?" he laughed. Aziraphale winced as he saw Crowley's lips tighten at being called 'pal'. He decided to interrupt before anyone got hurt.

"Much further? It's been so long since I last came here," he trilled, avoiding all eye contact and resuming a smart pace. Callum jogged alongside like a faithful labrador.

"Next left," said Crowley, "last time we were here it was the French revolu- " he froze mid-sentence but the human hadn't heard him. He was still gazing adorably at the angel.

"Always said we'd like to visit Paris, didn't we Az. All those hours talking about the Louvre. Do you still have that book on the Mona Lisa I gave you?"

"Err, yes," coughed Aziraphale, not looking at Crowley. The trio turned left into a smaller cobbled street where awnings decorated the street, hiding the few stars dotted above them. Lanterns swung above them and the faint aroma of sweet wine and lemons hung in the air. Callum hummed along to an old tune being played further down the street by an old man with an accordion. As they passed him, Crowley gave him a handful of notes to stop.

"Here we are," sighed Aziraphale, "Callum, would you mind popping in and seeing if they have a free table?" The human barely wasted a second in nodding feverishly and dashing into the restaurant. Aziraphale turned to Crowley, looking mildly concerned.

"Well?" he said bracing himself. Crowley crossed his arms and shrugged, saying nothing. The angel raised his eyebrows.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked, head on one side trying to look beneath the demon's glasses. Silence. Next to them a waiter slipped on a puddle that he could have sworn wasn't there a moment ago, a spilled an entire meal for two across several tables in a rather spectacular fashion. As the immediate drama ensued, Aziraphale spun around to face Crowley, an accusing expression painted across his face, to find his friend smirking at the floor.

"Why?" sighed Aziraphale, the simple question wiping the grin off the demon's face. Crowley shrugged again and kept his gaze on the floor as though he was reading something scrawled across the sidewalk. Exasperated, the angel reached across and removed his dark glasses. Yellow eyes rose to meet blue ones briefly.

"Did I do something wrong? Is it Callum? What?" Crowley rolled his eyes.

"No, yes, I mean - oh, never mind," groaned Crowley as Callum bounded over.

"We've got a bit of a wait gentlemen," he breathed, "The head waiter was very firm. About 45 minutes or so!" He raked his fingers through his hair and adopted an apologetic grin.

Muttering something profane under his breath, Crowley pushed past the man and marched into the restaurant. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"He was very firm..." trailed his companion uncertainly as he watched the demon over his shoulder. Crowley was standing very close to the head waiter and gesturing very clearly. A moment or two later and Crowley was in the doorway of the restaurant beckoning the others.

"Spot of luck _gentlemen_," he called, "table for three just became available!"

**Please R&R**


	8. Chapter 8

**Eurghh... snails!**

Inside was warm and loud. Laughter and the clink of fine cutlery hitting plates floated up to the ceiling. The trio had just polished off their first course and were craning their heads to look around for seconds. Eventually Callum spotted their waiter.

"There! No, over there. Err, garçon? Excuse moi?" He turned in his seat and tried to catch the waiter's eye by waving. Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. Suddenly the waiter was by his side, looking flustered and understandably confused.

"Err," he began.

"We've been waiting for nearly twenty minutes," explained Crowley, slowly and deliberately. The waiter looked apologetic.

"Sorry sir, we are short staffed tonight -" but Crowley interrupted again.

"Food. Here. Now." He snapped his fingers again and the waiter found himself driven towards the kitchen by an unseen force. Like quite a lot of people in charge who suddenly found themselves confused, he was about to shout at a lot of people below him. Crowley, who had been watching him throw open the kitchen doors and march inside with interest, turned back to the table to find Aziraphale and Callum sitting a little closer together. The human was leaning towards Zira and murmuring into his ear whilst the angel smiled knowingly. Crowley coughed. It made no difference.

"Should be along any minute," said Crowley. A careful observer would have noticed the candle in the centre of the table flicker and go out but the pair opposite the demon, too engrossed in each other's company, didn't. Aziraphale laughed again as Callum sat back in his chair. The two locked eyes and smiled. Crowley's knuckles were white now, his fists clenched. The whole table began to vibrate, cutlery bouncing around on it's surface but it was barely noticeable. Crowley, however, focused on a glass of red wine. Nearer, almost, nearly...

"Ah!"

_There_. Callum jumped upright and patted himself down, alarmed at the dark red stain spreading on his jeans. Crowley picked up his own glass and hid his smile in it.

"Could have sworn...must have..." muttered the man, "sorry gents. I'll be right back." Aziraphale waited until he was out of sight before waving away the mess in front of him. He looked up at Crowley's shaking shoulders.

"That wan't funny Crowley," he said. Crowley covered his mouth with his hand and coughed.

"Yes it was," he grinned but the angel didn't even smile. "Oh come one..."

"No, you come on Crowley," snapped Aziraphale, "you need to grow up!" Crowley paused and sat back in his chair, watching the angel. Aziraphale exhaled loudly and rubbed his temples but didn't apologize. It was very uncharacteristic of him.

You're mad at me," observed the demon, still trying to get his head around it. Aziraphale never raised his voice. He always knew Crowley was only joking.

"Well, yes. I am now, yes," he sighed. Zira glanced up and met Crowley's look of concern.

"Oh...never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm just tired."

"Of course it matters. _You_ matter. Tell me." Crowley reached across the table and clasped the angel's hand in his. Aziraphale's fingers were trembling. Sighing, he took a breath and tried to explain before the man came back.

"He - Callum, that is - he told me..."

"What?"

"Well... he said he still loves me," Aziraphale broke off and tried to retract his hand but Crowley had it pinned to the table absentmindedly.

"He _what_?" growled the demon, his eyes searching Zira's expression. Aziraphale half smiled.

"He still loves me. Me. He _loves_ me." Crowley didn't know whether to laugh or scream. he settled for a bitter tone of sarcasm.

"Well _obviously_," he sneered, jealously making him cruel, "he's a human. He can't help it." His conscience, suddenly aware his owner was doing something incredibly stupid again, begged him to stop but Crowley's demonic tongue carried on.

"All humans love you. You're an angel. They can't control it. Humans love angels." Aziraphale frowned.

"No, it's not like that...he _said_ he loves -"

"Zira, mate, hate to break it to you but all that human feels for you is what every other human in this place feels - a deep, ineffable love for angels. Just like they have an ineffable fear of demons. It's nature. Human nature." Crowley paused and waited for Aziraphale to interrupt. He didn't. Instead the angel sat in silence and stared at the floor, blinking slowly. Regret tugged at the back of Crowley's mind.

"Did...did you love him?" he asked, pleading internally for the answer to be a resounding 'no.' Aziraphale sighed.

"Probably not," he murmured, still avoiding Crowley's eyes, "it was probably just some sort of deep, ineffable love for mankind. You know, something I couldn't control..."

"Zira, I -"

"Monsieur?" Crowley looked up into the fearful face of the head waiter. He had a silver platter in his outstretched hand. "Your escargot?" The silver platter was placed proudly in the center of the table as Callum arrived.

"Oh good," he exclaimed, "snails!" Helping himself, the man didn't notice the glass beside him refilling itself slowly. The table suddenly jumped as though someone had knocked it whilst walking past innocently and the glass proceeded to empty itself over the human again.

"Oh for fu- _goodness_ sake!" groaned Callum leaping backwards. This time he didn't even bother to excuse himself. Crowley looked at Aziraphale in surprise.

"Hey! I thought you said I wasn't allowed to do that? How come you get -"

"Crowley shut up," sighed Aziraphale, "I've been thinking about what you said last time you were in London. Do you remember? You were asking me about human emotions."

Crowley frowned as he recalled their meeting, "yeah?"

"Well, I think I understand what you were talking about now, my dear. I think we've spent so long down here...I can't stop thinking at ground level." He tried to smile but gave up. "I don't love him, you're right. Maybe I used to...I don't know."

"Maybe," reasoned Crowley, "angels are supposed to be about love and stuff right?"

"I suppose, but not relationships. I think I just enjoyed the company, the need to have someone beside you. Angels aren't like that."

"Well you'll have to settle for me hanging around," drawled Crowley. He was rewarded with an angelic smile. Just then Callum returned and Crowley felt insanely happy to see Aziraphale exhale impatiently.

"Lets just forget the snails," he said, "I'm feeling tired. Crowley, dearest, could you attract the waiter's attention please?" Crowley obliged smugly. Callum looked a little lost.

"There's a nice bar just down the road. If you wanted, we could...?" he suggested, turning his back on Crowley but Aziraphale just yawned pointedly.

"Sorry, Callum, it was lovely to catch up though. Perhaps next time I'm in Paris...?" Callum nodded glumly. Smiling apologetically, the angel stood up and reached for his coat but instead on hanging on the back of his chair where he'd left it, it was being suspended in mid air just behind him and demonic smile behind it. Crowley helped Aziraphale put on his coat, wrapping it around him after he'd shrugged it on and draped an arm around his shoulders, leading him out into the cold night air, a dejected Callum trailing not far behind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Ahh, okay another update. My, my these are coming thick and fast.**

**It's starting to get fluffy but don't worry you lemon fans - all this UST has to end sooner or later ;)**

Crowley watched the man sip his drink thoughtfully before replacing the glass on a coaster which had miraculously appeared to avoid making an unpleasant ring.

"You needn't have bothered with that. That's what maids are for."

"This is a hotel, we are their guests, we do not abuse their hospitality," explained Aziraphale patiently, "We're not some sort of rockstars," he added to his companions amusement.

"We're paying for this room," reasoned Crowley into his pint.

"Well, some of us are," muttered the angel disapprovingly. Crowley snorted. The pair had decided not to travel back to their homes immediately, instead finding a hotel with a nice view and staying in Paris for another day. It was Crowley who had suggested the hotel, much to Aziraphale's amazement.

"Who needs to pay for things when you're as rich as me? You think I made this money writing cheques?"

"Actually they're using credit cards now," said Aziraphale who liked to keep up to date with human technology, "very few places accept cheques now."

"Ah yes, one of my better ideas. An efficient way to lose a lot of money very quickly." The angel rolled his eyes. Crowley prided himself on his diabolical schemes. He had quite a collection of commendations.

"Oh you and your _ideas_," he drawled, "you don't see me bragging about my good deeds."

"That's because pride is one of the seven capital vices," sang Crowley, imitating the angel's high-pitched tones. Despite himself, Aziraphale grinned.

"And pride comes before a fall dear," he warned playfully. Now it was Crowley's turn to grin.

"Well I'm not falling for anyone -" he began before breaking off, remembering something.

"What?" asked Aziraphale over the top of his glass. His melodic voice seemed to break Crowley's trance and the man shook his head and laughed.

"Nothing. I - it's nothing," Crowley chuckled to himself and continued to stare at the angel, still smiling. He brushed the demonic voice to the back of his mind, _Tempt the angel. Make him fall. Bring him to his knees._ Aziraphale adopted a puzzled smile and lowered his glass. Crowley found himself reaching out to stroke the angel's hand as it touched the table. Aziraphale looked down, surprised, but did not pull away.

"What's up with you lately?" he smiled, "you seem different."

"Different how?"

"Oh, I don't know. Less...you know, less like a conventional demon. More caring."

"Ah, see I'm splitting from the team. Going rogue," winked Crowley. He squeezed the angel's hand before selecting the wine bottle and pouring himself another glass. The two let silence fill the closing gap between them. Aziraphale sipped his drink thoughtfully and reminded himself, between slurps, that he really shouldn't have anymore. His vision was already blurring around the edges. Crowley on the other hand, was throwing caution to the wind and knocking back another.

"This stuff's good," gasped Crowley, abandoning his glass and grabbing the bottle.

"S'alright," agreed Aziraphale. He tried to focus on the demon and found him sitting a lot closer than he thought. He blinked in surprise to find Crowley suddenly lounging beside him and lent back.

"I don't think I could stand the thought of having to get sober at a human speed though," he slurred, "s'much easier to miracle a hangover away..."

"Hmm," agreed the demon, "but the bit before the hangover's good."

"The bit where you throw up?"

"No - the fun bit. The bit where everything just seems...fun..."

"Oh, you mean the tipsy bit," agreed Aziraphale. He turned on his side and watched the demon's chest fall and rise in time with his breathing thoughtfully. "Callum and I used to get tipsy," he said wistfully. Crowley sighed.

"Forget about him. You didn't really love him." Aziraphale looked at Crowley and smiled.

"No, you're right. I don't love him." The two lay in silence for a while, each thinking deeply. Aziraphale tucked his head into Crowley's neck and lay still. It was nice, being so close to someone, but Crowley was right, he'd never be loved - not really. He knew humans loved angels intrinsically but that wasn't the problem. He wanted to be loved, to be cared for, for who he was not because of what he was. It was sad but the demon was probably right.

Meanwhile Crowley was resting his cheek on the angel's warm head and listening to his soft breathing. Curly blond hair tickled his ear and he could faintly smell vanilla. He was beautiful. All angels are, of course, Crowley thought. He tried to remember what Aziraphale had said about human emotions and thought about how it was strange that they were only just being affected by them after centuries of being on earth. In fact, they'd only been close friends for a few decades... Crowley's eyes widened as he considered this. Then, very slowly, he reached up and removed his sunglasses revealing a startling pair of yellow eyes as though trying to see his thoughts more clearly.

Love...affection...caring...These weren't human emotions. Sure, humans experienced them but they stemmed from a different race. Angels. Just like feelings of lust, greed and anger were inherited from demons. Crowley sat up straight suddenly as he thought about this, startling a dozy Aziraphale.

"Whazzat?" said the angel. He had been enjoying the comfort.

"N-nothing, angel." Crowley ran his fingers through his hair and gulped. It was Aziraphale.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ooh angsty! I think I fell in love with Crowley again writing this...**

**Too bad he's basically spoken for :/ This one's a long 'un.**

Light crept into the room as politely as possible as though it wanted to remind it's sleeping inhabitants that it was time to get up but only if it wasn't too much trouble. Birds outside chirped and sang above the busy Parisian streets. The Hotel itself was on the corner of a busy main road but Crowley's favorite room was one at the back of the building. It was high enough to escape the sounds of the traffic below and to see over the roofs of the city all the way to the Eiffel Tower.

Crowley watched it now, thoughtfully. It looked like a giant lighthouse as the sunlight glinted off it's peak. He remembered it's creator, old Gustave, and how he had tried tempting him into building a monstrosity that would forever ruin the great city's landscape but the strong-minded man had been intent on producing a masterpiece of architecture and Crowley had eventually given up. Now the demon looked at it and was glad. It was the most beautiful view in the world. Turning slightly at the angel's gentle snore, he smiled as Aziraphale turned over in his sleep. _One_ of the most beautiful views, he corrected himself.

The sun was just illuminating the sky at this end of town so the sky above was still a milky blue. Crowley guessed it was around half six. He and the angel had fallen asleep only a few hours ago but that didn't bother him, he never really needed sleep that much anyway. Aziraphale on the other hand was snoring into his pillow. Crowley had let him have the bed and had crashed on the sofa instead. It hadn't been as comfortable as sitting curled up on the sofa with the angel but he knew Aziraphale was exhausted. His eyes had closed as soon as he'd climbed under the starch sheets.

The block of flats opposite him suddenly opened a window. Crowley opened his own and lent out to get a better look at the blond head smiling up at him. It was a young girl, around eight years old, with a wide toothy smile.

"C'est mon anniversaire!" she shouted up at him. Crowley gave her a thumbs up. The girl ducked out of sight briefly and returned with a balloon. It was red and had the number nine on it. Then, opening the window wider, the child forced the balloon out and let go of the string. The pair watched the red balloon float gently upwards between the two buildings and towards the tiny Eiffel Tower in the distance. As it faded from sight, the birthday girl turned to smile at the nice man again but he'd gone.

"Mmm," sighed Aziraphale rolling onto his back. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the cracked ceiling, trying to remember where he was. He hands patted the sheets around him. Okay, he was in a bed. He was obviously hung over. A quick flash of memory reminded him that he'd been out to dinner last night - with Callum - oh God, had he..had they? The angel sat up quickly and memory flooded back. No, he'd gotten drunk with Crowley and had fallen asleep. Relaxing, Aziraphale sunk back into the excess of sheets and stuffed the pillow under his head. The room was warm and bright and he could hear the sounds drifting in from outside. The open lattice let in the bird song, the distant traffic and...a sob? Aziraphale sat up.

On the floor underneath the window sill sat the curled up figure of Crowley. His back to the wall, he hugged his knees and his head was buried in his arms.

"Crowley? Dear?" The angel untangled himself from warm sheets and crawled to the edge of the narrow bed.

"What's wrong?" Crowley ignored him and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

"Tell me? Are you upset?"

"No," snapped Crowley. He glanced up and met the angel's blue, sleepy eyes and finally nodded. Hoping off the bed, Aziraphale sat beside his friend and patted his bicep consolingly.

"Why don't you explain. You'll feel better..."

"No I won't," growled the demon. He tugged at his shirt collar and loosened his tie. they had been severely crumpled by the few hours he had spent on the couch. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "And stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" said the angel innocently, leaning forward.

"Like you're worried about me or something."

"But I am!" Aziraphale cried. "Crowley, dear, you haven't been acting like yourself at all lately. And now you're upset about something. Just tell me what it is, let it out. You _will_ feel better."

"You won't understand... _I_ don't even understand." The demon rolled his head around in a semi-circle, stretching his neck. The tension around his shoulders increased. He unbuttoned his top shirt button, wishing he could release his wings.

"It's just...lately...those feelings - the one's we talked about..."

"The human ones..."

"Well..." Crowley frowned. He hadn't worked out all the details yet and didn't want to scare Aziraphale off with a hunch. He settled for:

"They're stronger. it's like, the more time I spend here, um, with you, the more I..._feel_. I don't like it. It's affecting the way I work. I keep wondering about, well, _consequences_." He shuddered at the word. Aziraphale tipped his head to one side sympathetically.

"You need something to eat," he said but the demon brushed him off. Closing his eyes, all Crowley could see was that image of the red balloon.

"So...these feelings," murmured Aziraphale carefully, "any specific ones...?" His hand crept down Crowley's arm and covered it hesitantly. He held his breath as the man opened and closed his mouth.

"I killed someone," Crowley said at last. Aziraphale froze, forgetting to breathe although he didn't technically need to. The sentence had not been what he'd expected.

"A kid. Just a kid. I was, well, I was speeding and I didn't see him and I killed him. Death came and he had a stick - no, it was a scythe and then the boy lost his balloon..." Crowley was rambling now. He bowed his head and covered his dark mane with his arms. The angel rubbed his shoulder until the demon was ready to look at him again.

"I've never really killed anyone before Zira," whispered Crowley, his slitted eyes searching the angel's blue ones imploringly, "not directly. It was an accident." Aziraphale suddenly found himself draping an arm around his heaving shoulders, pulling him close and another gently guiding the demon's head to his own chest. He stroked the man's soft hair, amazed at his brazenness. He felt almost ashamed of taking advantage of the demon's sudden vulnerability but reasoned he was simply acting as a good friend. He hoped the demon couldn't feel his overactive heartbeat.

"See what I mean Zira? A thousand years ago I wouldn't have thought twice about that kid's death. He was a human; completely insignificant. So. Why. Do. I. Care?" Great shuddering breaths escaped his throat as Crowley lay against his friend, frustrated and confused. He was barely aware of the man's soft whisperings into his ear over the blood pounding around his head.

"I don't know dear," sighed Aziraphale, resting his chin on the demon's head. "Perhaps...well, maybe you've..." he trailed off uncertainly. Crowley heaved himself upright expectantly.

"Maybe I've what?" he breathed, searching the angel's awkward expression.

"Changed?" offered Aziraphale. "Well you've spent such a long time here on earth. With me. Perhaps we've rubbed off on each other. You're a lot more sensitive than you were in the 14th century. Maybe we've met in the middle, more like humans?" The angel shrugged and rested his lips on the demon's hair. Crowley didn't seem to notice.

"But you haven't changed. You're still as perfect as ever..." Aziraphale blushed as he thought of the sinful feelings he was harboring. They were far from angelic. He acknowledged at least four of the seven deadly sins swimming around his mind as they spoke.

"Not quite dear," he said, "I think you've had quite an effect on me too." He looked down and away in case the man saw the look in his blues eyes.

"Changed..." muttered Crowley, testing the word with his forked tongue, "changed, changed. Perhaps."

"But you mustn't fret over the boy's death now, dear. There's nothing you can do now."

"But I can't just ignore these feelings!" cried the demon, burying his head in the angel's neck, "I can't just forget about it!"

Aziraphale gasped as he felt hot breath tickle his neck. His heart raced as his hands slid up and down the demon's back consolingly.

"I know," he whispered, "it's hard." Crowley closed his eyes as the angel's hand ran between his shoulder blades. He felt the tension occupying his shoulders lessen a little before returning as the fingertips moved on. He sucked his breath through his teeth as the pain of stress returned.

"What is it?" said a soft voice above him. Crowley wriggled his shoulders and sat up.

"Need...to...stretch wings..." he grunted as he undid his shirt buttons. Ligur's smug expression flashed in front of his eyes as the demon struggled with the final buttons.

"No..." he murmured, letting his hands fall to his side. He didn't want to fulfill his instructions. Aziraphale was his friend. He didn't want to betray his trust. But to his surprise, the angel sighed and unfastened the last couple of buttons.

"There," he said as he helped a bewildered demon slip his arm out of the sleeve, "better?" There was a silken noise and the two were suddenly surrounded by dark feathers. The wings spanned the length of the small room, the tips brushing the cobwebs from the ceiling and blocking the light, throwing shadows everywhere. Crowley cleared his throat and tried to make himself as small as possible but Aziraphale grinned at him.

"Tell me you're not shy, Crowley! You? I can't believe it!"

"I am not!" said the demon indignantly, his chest rising. The angel laughed and stretched, stifling a yawn. He looked at his friend skeptically as he covered his mouth politely earning him a scowl.

"M'not," huffed Crowley. He hesitated before continuing. "Just don't want you to think I'm teasing you or anything," he mumbled, only half-joking. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and paused for a moment. Crowley regretted his last sentence in the thoughtful silence that continued. Finally, unable to bear it, the demon broke it.

"My shoulders are better now. I'll put my shirt back on. Cold in here, isn't it? I'll just -" he winced as he twisted his shoulders to reach for his shirt which the angel had folded and left on the floor. Aziraphale sighed seeing the man struggle, red-faced, for his clothing.

"Stop it, you'll do yourself an injury," he said, "let me..." Gingerly, the angel half-rose and shuffled behind the demon on his knees so that he was kneeling behind the demon's black wings. Crowley turned quickly and stopped as a tendon twanged in his neck. A pale hand hovered along the demon's shoulder before resting on a sensitive spot between his shoulder blades. Crowley bit his lip, closing his eyes.

"There..." hissed Crowley as Aziraphale's fingers traced a sore spot on the back of his neck. Aziraphale prided himself on his heavenly massages and immediately began to rub the demon's shoulders vigorously. Crowley clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, as the angel began to massage his back, paying careful attention to sensitive spots. Crowley exhaled as Aziraphale's fingers crept back up to his neck.

"Any better?" asked the angel behind him. Crowley remained silent, his mind racing. Now would be the perfect opportunity, he thought. I could easily fulfill my instructions...


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Totally nicked the idea of the uncertainty principle from Pratchett's 'The Fifth Elephant.'**

**Gahh I promise - lemons in the next chapt! It's nearly over! **

Turning his head slightly, Crowley felt the angel's breath brush his cheek. His wings shivered as Aziraphale ran a finger along them, his black feathers shimmering. The two were kneeling beside the window looking out onto a sunny Parisian morning. The angel, kneeling behind Crowley still massaged his shoulders gently.

"Much better," hissed the demon, his eyelids fluttering. He turned his head even more and found the angel was closer than he thought, almost head-butting his chin. Aziraphale tilted his head to the side and smiled.

"Good," he whispered, leaning forward. Crowley suddenly found himself unable to look anywhere else but the angel's mouth. His soft lips were parted and closing the distance between them. Reaching up, Crowley shifted round and rested a hand against the man's cheek. Aziraphale's smile grew wider as the demon also got to his knees so their eyes were level.

"Angel," he breathed.

"Dear," murmured Aziraphale placing his own hand over the cold one stroking his cheek. He rested his forehead against his friend's and sighed. Crowley's eyes were still on the other's man's lips. He licked his own nervously and titled his chin...

...and caught the alarm clock's eye. It winked at him and turned off. Crowley leapt to his feet, causing a confused angel to tumble forwards, and grabbed the clock.

"Leave us alone!" He shouted slamming it against the wall. The clock face shattered and springs sprung in all directions.

"Crowley what the hell are you doing?" groaned Aziraphale, his face hidden in the carpet. Propping himself up on his elbows, he watched the demon ripping the phone out of the wall.

"Crowley!" Crowley looked around guiltily before briefly glancing at the radio.

"They're listening," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. Now thoroughly peeved, Aziraphale sat up and combed his fingers through his hair.

"What? Who are you -?"

"Shh..." growled Crowley, raising a finger to his lips. Outside a car horn blared. Crowley's head jerked upright. Grabbing his shirt, he shrugged it on as he crossed the room. Only a sigh made him pause, hand clutching the door handle. Aziraphale was lounging by the bed, his head in his hands.

"I'll...I'll be right back," promised Crowley. Aziraphale watched him slam the door behind him and heard his hurried footsteps fade away down the stairs. _I've scared him off_, he thought, _again_. Heaving himself up on to the bed, the angel closed his eyes and flopped back onto the mattress. He'd come so close to brushing his own lips against the demon, tasting him. He could feel different emotion stirring inside of him and when Crowley had touched his cheek...The angel shivered. There had been a sudden rush of both love and lust for the other man. He had wanted to kiss him and stroke him and be with him forever.

Groaning, Aziraphale rolled over and buried his face in the cold pillow. He'd blown his chance.

He'd blown it! That damn dark demon lord had blown his chance with the angel! Crowley, running now, his burgundy shirt flapping open in the wind revealing his chest, turned the corner. He dodged a few pedestrians and slowed when he recognized the Bentley parked across the street. It's engine was running and the black door flew open to embrace him as he approached it.

Climbing inside, the demon ran his hands over the steering wheel and turned on the radio. What was it the angel had said? He'd changed? Was that it? Had they affected each other so deeply, so completely, that he was becoming...more angelic? Well, he had been an angel once, before he'd made the mistake of sauntering downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. But Aziraphale had said he had changed too and that couldn't be right. Aziraphale was...perfect. Crowley huffed and switched on the radio. A familiar voice crawled out.

"**WELL? HAVE YOU SUCCEEDED YET?**" Crowley sucked his teeth and glared at the radio. He wanted to punch it but he didn't have the heart to do that to his car. Not after all they'd been through together. It had only just recovered from it's scorch marks!

"No...no, no NO you BLOODY well know I haven't _succeeded_ yet!" cried the demon venting his rising anger and frustration. Silence on the other end of the communication gave Crowley time to think. He banged his head on the steering wheel as he thought of Aziraphale alone and restless in their room. He wanted him, not because of any instructions but because, he realized with a slow smile, he loved him. Crowley knew he hadn't got a choice.

"I've changed my mind," he breathed. The diabolical voice on the other end of the radio gave a nervous cough.

"**YOU...YOU WHAT**?" Downstairs, so to speak, a group of demons gathered around what looked like an old grammar phone glanced at each other anxiously.

"**YOU CANNOT CHANGE YOUR MIND**," growled the biggest demon, "**YOU HAVE NO CHOICE. YOU WILL FULFILL YOUR INSTRUCTIONS OR DIE**."

"Then I do have a choice," said Crowley lazily. He waited for the voice to argue but when it did not, he continued, "Tempting an angel is an impossible task. It cannot be done. I am on earth to tempt humans - which I do very well," he added smugly.

In hell, Hastur waved frantically at another horned creature. Covering the mouthpiece of the communicator, he whispered hoarsely to Ligur.

"He said no! He wont do it!" Ligur grabbed the mouthpiece and snarled into it.

"**THESE INSTRUCTIONS COME FROM THE HIGHEST AUTHORITY!**" He snapped. He was tired of the other demon's wiles. "**YOU WILL COMPLETE THEM OR BE PUNISHED**."

Up on earth, Crowley suddenly found he had an unexpected passenger. Death turned and nodded amicably at the surprised demon.

"Is...is this it?" Crowley swallowed, "Are they...am I already dead?" Death shook his hood.

NO.

"Then why...? Am I going to die in a minute? Are you a few seconds early?" Hysteria rose in the usually cool Crowley's voice.

PERHAPS.

"Perhaps? You're not sure?" Death shrugged. It was all new to him too.

IT'S ALL TO DO WITH THIS THING CALLED THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE, I'M TOLD. YOU MAY OR MAY NOT DIE BUT I'M HERE, JUST IN CASE. Death scratched his head. This new concept had been mucking up his usual schedule.

"Well that's comforting," muttered Crowley. Somehow though, looking Death in the face, or rather, the dark space under his hood where his face presumably was, took away his fear. He smiled at the Grim Reaper beside him who was flicking through his cassette collection approvingly, and thought of Aziraphale, beautiful Aziraphale, waiting for him and cleared his throat.

"I said no," said Crowley firmly. There was a pause. Down in the fiery furnace of the Underworld, Ligur scratched his chin with a taloned claw. He hated that sneaky snake but he had to admit, he was stubborn. Since the instructions hadn't technically come from the Highest Authority* he was going to have to resort to empty threats and hope, that with the passage of time, he may be able to fulfill them one day. With a final shrug and grimace at Hastur, he said:

"**YOU WILL BE PUNISHED.**"

Beside him, Death vanished with an uncharacteristic popping noise. Crowley blinked. He was still alive. He stroked the steering wheel gratefully and turned off the radio with relief. There would be consequences, there always were, but hopefully he'd managed to put them off for at least another few decades. Crowley drummed his fingers on the dashboard as a slow, wicked grin spread archly across his face. Well if he was going to do the Time, he might as well do the Crime.

Stepping out of his car and into the morning sunlight, Crowley strode across the road and around the block back to his favorite hotel where he had a promise to keep.

*Adam rather liked Crowley. He called him Crawly.


	12. Chapter 12

**OK, _phew_. Done. Hope I did these two justice, they deserve a happy ending I think.**

Aziraphale paced the room. It was a cliché thing to do when you are nervous, particularly if you happen to have your hands clasped behind your back and keep muttering to yourself, therefore the angel was currently running them through his hair and pausing now and again to look out the window. It made the situation feel a bit more original. In fact the whole affair wasn't as new as he would have liked. Aziraphale had been in a similar state of mind before after getting a little too comfortable with the demon. They seemed to be stuck in some sort of loop. It would start off fine, such as the summer of 1939, and then one of the pair would over-think the whole arrangement and freak out.

_To be fair_, thought Aziraphale, _I was the one of ran away from it last time. _The two had then spent a decade avoiding each other, busying themselves with work (Crowley more so) before tentatively resuming their friendship. It was so frustrating! Aziraphale finally ceased pacing and curled up on the sofa, chin resting on his knees. He wanted the demon back. He wanted to hold him and be held. He tried wrapping his arms around himself but it wasn't the same. He recalled what Crowley had said about human emotions, about love. He had almost given up on the idea but that sweet feeling of closeness and warmth he had felt when Crowley had placed a cold hand on his blushing cheek...a spark of hope had awakened within him. Now, alone again, it had faded almost completely.

Crowley took the stairs three at a time. His breaths would have been rushed and fast had he been breathing.

Aziraphale sighed and threw his head back where it connected and bounced against the couch. Unbuttoning his shirt, he ran a perfectly manicured hand over his chest and turned his head to look at the door. He wished the handle would turn. Perhaps his subconsciousness had heard the footsteps before his ears did. The handle was wrenched down and the door flew open.

Crowley stood illuminated in the doorway, the sunlight from the window opposite drenching him in a warm glow. His cheeks were red, presumably from running, and his eyes were wild. He took a small step forward. Aziraphale stood up, he could hear his pulse in his ears. He licked his suddenly dry lips.

"I thought..." he began but Crowley was moving forward confidently now. He closed the gap between them with four large strides and crashed his lips against the angels. Aziraphale's eyes widened at the unexpected force as he felt the man's parted lips moving against his own. He closed his eyes and smiled, permitting the demon's forked tongue entry. The angel, running his hands up the demon's chest gratefully, allowed himself to be pushed back onto the couch. Crowley, tongue still exploring the other's mouth, shrugged out of his shirt and pressed himself against Aziraphale. He raised his eyebrows as he felt two hands begin to unfasten his belt hurriedly. The angel was obviously as eager as he was.

Aziraphale's mind was racing. He'd come back! His Crowley had returned! His fingers fumbled with the demon's belt buckle, rendered clumsy and useless by excitement. They had never been as close as this before and Aziraphale was determined to stay entwined and locked together for as long as possible. The warmth, the proximity, the _passion _was much more than he had ever experienced before. His mind was clouded with thoughts of Crowley, _impure_ thoughts, his inner angel corrected him, and he let his urges take over. Crowley was somewhat surprised to find Aziraphale so responsive, pleased but surprised. he sensed the other man's frustration at not being able to undo his trousers so he reached down and unfastened it with one hand, the other sliding along the inside of Aziraphale's thigh, cupping him. Aziraphale gasped at the sensation. This, plus the fact that the demon's lips were now working their way down his neck and along his collarbone, forced a soft moan from the angel. Crowley grinned. He waved away the last on their clothing with a flick of his wrist, Aziraphale's shirt buttons had been getting on his nerves. The angel looked down at his bare flesh and then up into Crowley's suddenly wary eyes.

"Don't...stop..." he panted. He felt Crowley's doubt creeping over him. He sat up and pulled the man into another deep kiss, anxious not to lose the moment. Crowley embraced him also but Aziraphale was conscious of the man's arms hanging by his sides, unlike his own hands which were stroking his chest and neck. He pulled away, unwillingly, at last and looked into Crowley's snake eyes.

"What?"

"I don't want _you_ to be punished," admitted Crowley. It had crossed his mind during their kiss that he might not be the only one to be punished by his superiors. Aziraphale half smiled before leaning forward again.

"I don't care," he whispered into Crowley's neck. They resumed kissing, Crowley more eager this time but he was surprised to find Aziraphale had maneuvered him into a more compromising position without him noticing.

"Zira - ?" he grunted, only the waver at the end of his voice suggesting it was a question. Aziraphale smiled. He looked heavenly in the morning glow, his blond curls standing on end, framing his face like a halo. He watched over Crowley from above him and then, kissing and licking and sucking his neck then nipples, his tongue traced its way down the length of the man's body. Crowley sat up very quickly as a wet kiss was planted on the bulge between his legs. A hand reached up and pushed him firmly down.

"Zira..." hissed Crowley again, his eyes closing in satisfaction. Aziraphale was on his knees now, his head bobbing in time to his racing heart, faster and faster with each movement sending shivers of ecstasy down his spine.

Crowley's hips responded to the action as though they had a mind of their own. Likewise Crowley couldn't control the sounds his throat were making. It was as if they were trying to mimic the sounds of his feelings, if only passion could make such a noise it would be a scream of bliss, of triumph, of rapture. His cries subsiding, he managed to lift his head off the sofa to peer down at the angel. He was on his knees, his eyes half closed and focused on Crowley. A voice entered the demon's head.

"_Tempt the angel. Make him fall. Bring him to his knees."_

He pushed himself up halfway and then collapsed as he came, heat flooding his body. Any thoughts that had collected in his mind were pushed back by a brilliant moment of elation. Aziraphale rose unsteadily to his feet before falling beside Crowley, his mouth moving along his shoulder to his chiseled jaw.

"Zira...you..." panted a breathless Crowley. He couldn't find the words the describe the sensation so he turned and kissed the angel instead so quickly that he took him by surprise.

"Come here..." Still panting with a wild look in his eyes, Crowley straddled the angel, hooking his legs around his waist. The two twisted together, locked in the position, hips rubbing, grinding faster and faster. Aziraphale's mouth opened in a silent scream of pleasure, his eyes shut tight as his body responded to Crowley's intimate thrusts. Aziraphale's hands were woven tight into Crowley's hair now, his face buried deep in the demon's neck. Crowley could tell he was close, he could hardly breathe. He kept trying to speak but the only words which could disentangle themselves from the heat of his brain were '_Azzziraphale_' and '_Yesss_' which turned into a low sort of hiss anyway. He was sure the angel felt the same. Only moans and whispers escaped his lips and lost themselves in the moment.

He cried out. Or possibly, they both did, together. Aziraphale felt the man collapse on top of him, sweat running down his back and forehead. Crowley tried to roll over but found the angel's arms keeping him there, holding them together in a tight hug. He rested his head against the angel's heaving chest and let their heartbeats settle to mimic each others.

Aziraphale didn't care. He really didn't. The whole of Heaven could descend, but he would not let them wrench him from Crowley. He knew if his superiors found out there would be no escape, but hadn't they already faced Armageddon together once? Besides, Aziraphale felt this was much more important anyway. As Aziraphale smiled and resumed running his delicate fingers along his spine, Crowley let out a hiss of satisfaction and realised two things. The first was that he was experiencing being in love. With Aziraphale. The second, was that he didn't mind.


End file.
